


A Lion By Any Other Name

by Heliocat



Series: Griffin Callenreese Appreciation [1]
Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Ash reads at a high level for his age, Canon Compliant, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Cute, Etymology, Foreshadowing, Gen, Griffin Callenreese appreciation, Lions, Name Changes, Nicknames, Pseudonyms, Reading, filling gaps in a story, good parenting, griffin is a good dad, raising a genius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24929518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heliocat/pseuds/Heliocat
Summary: The pseudonym 'Ash Lynx' had to come from somewhere, and the name has sentimental origins for Ash.Childhood memories and foreshadowed tragedy. Cuteness and angst.
Relationships: Griffin Callenreese & Ash Lynx
Series: Griffin Callenreese Appreciation [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981201
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	A Lion By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> There are not nearly enough Griffin Callenreese appreciation fics. Also, playing around with the TRUE definition of the name Aslan.
> 
> I'm English, so British English has been used for spelling and grammar.
> 
> Many thanks to Akimi Yoshida for creating Banana Fish - this is a work of fanfiction, so I own none of the intellectual property.

Griffin Callenreese was, for all intents and purposes, your average 17-year-old. He wasn’t strange or unusual in any way. He had no deformities or special skills, although he was admittedly a pretty smart kid. He did well in school, and was fairly popular and well liked even though there were relatively few people he actually considered friends. He was a quiet, studiously creative individual, who read poetry alone on his lunch break in the quad and had played baseball in his school’s club twice a week. He'd been voted valedictorian at his graduation ceremony in May, and had given a very moving speech. Where Griffin differed from most 17-year-olds, however, was that he had become a single father at the age of 13.

It wasn’t his child; it was his younger brother. Aslan had been born in the summer of 1968, a passionate lovechild crafted from the briefest of flings between a wild but beautiful hippie chick and his womanising prick of a father. Free love had been all the rage at the time, he supposed, and his own mother, Audrey, had been in ill heath – it was only natural that Jim Callenreese would stray to fresher meat. She had been a Cape tourist, travelling with a group of like-minded drug-addled young adults chasing the fanciful idea of natural living, spiritualism, and psychedelic escape. She’d been barely older than Griffin, maybe in her late teens, and Jim had been smitten. She had only graced the Cape for a month before vanishing with her troupe to pastures new, but that was long enough to destroy what was left of Audrey and Jim Callenreese’s failing marriage.

Audrey had tragically succumbed to her illness in the winter of 1967, just before Christmas, mere months before his brother came into the world. The doctors would say it was cancer, but Griffin would maintain that, at least in part, her demise had been sped up by a broken heart. She had been an exceptionally kind and loving woman, patient and understanding, and Jim had abandoned her the minute she was no longer useful to him. For that, Griffin would never forgive his father.

Aslan had been an unwanted by-product of their tryst. The woman his father had fallen for turned up on their doorstep alone in August, frazzled and unkempt, a wild look in her eyes as she desperately grasped at a crying bundle of fabric and flailing newborn. She had a bag slung over one arm with a handful of clean diapers, a box of milk powder, a bottle, a few items of baby clothing and a birth certificate inside. She had handed Jim his baby, said she couldn’t look after him, dropped the bag on the porch, and promptly left. She died herself less than 6 months later of a drug overdose, just one of millions who passed young before their time because of drugs. Griffin vowed then to never do drugs himself, no matter how much peer pressure he was put under and no matter what the circumstances. They only destroyed lives, not only those of the users, but also those of their family and friends.

Jim had neither wanted nor expected a child; being a lone parent to Griffin was trouble enough, but at least Griffin could mostly take care of himself now. A baby, however, was a far needier creature. It wasn’t that Jim was necessarily a bad person, but he had never been great with kids, and Aslan had been a prolific crier – screaming all hours of the day and night for attention. In the end, it had not been Jim who had attended his cries; it had been Griffin.

At 13-years-old, he had learnt fast how to feed and burp a ravenous baby who would practically gnaw the teat off the bottle given half a chance, how to change a seriously stinky nappy without gagging, how to soothe a screaming child unable to voice their issues back to sleep and how to properly bathe a wriggling infant that did NOT want to be in the sink, thank you very much! He would wake up early to make sure his brother was clean and fed, nip back during lunch to change him and see if he was hungry, and then rush home after school to once again attend to his brother’s needs. Any other person may have hated the hellspawn that had first wrecked his family and now dominated every second of his life, but not Griffin. He had inherited his mother’s kindness, and from the first moment he had held the tiny pink speck of human life in his arms he had fallen in love. It was not Aslan’s fault he had been born, and this precious life was still his brother, even if they had different mothers. He made sure he felt safe and loved during those early days.

Jim Callenreese left the family home when Aslan was 6 months old. He had found himself a new ladyfriend, a calm and mousy woman called Jennifer who owned the diner across the street that Jim liked to frequent. They had been friends for a while, and she had taken pity on his situation. Their relationship progressed and it wasn’t long before he announced he was moving into the diner with her. He gave Griffin two options; he could move in with them, or else he could stay here with Aslan. Griffin had chosen the latter. After his mother’s death, the rift between them had grown ever wider and, while they never really argued or shouted, the relationship between the two of them had become tenuous. Jim had agreed that it was probably for the best. He gave Griffin money every month to pay for food and clothing, made sure their house was kept in good repair, and every Sunday they would be invited to the diner for a family dinner. Jennifer took responsibility of Aslan while Griffin was at school on weekdays – Griffin became good friends with her and liked her as a person, but he would never call her Mom. Despite her being the closest thing to a mother he had, neither did Aslan. She was always, to both of them, just Jen, their Dad’s girlfriend.

Aslan grew up in the blink of an eye, and the little blonde tadpole became a precocious and curious 4-year-old. Griffin had watched proudly as he learned to walk and talk, and had dutifully potty trained him with Jen’s help. He was insanely smart, always asking questions to the point of annoyance and picking up new skills with an inhuman speed. Griffin had been teaching him how to read from the age of two, introducing him to basic things like writing the alphabet and recognising simple words and phrases, and he had mastered them lightning fast. By age three, he had been reading picture books by himself unassisted. He had just turned 4 and now had the reading age of someone twice his age. He would devour books like they were going out of fashion; Griffin was convinced he was some form of genius. Every Saturday, Griffin would take him to the local library to get his fix, and he’d pick up three or four new books – not always fictional – to occupy his time over the following days. This week, he had chosen ‘101 Dalmations’ by Dodie Smith, ‘The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe’ from the Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis, and a kid’s encyclopaedia of predatory animals.

He was hungrily reading his way through ‘The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe’ while Griffin washed up after dinner in the kitchen. Hands deep in soapy water as he swilled the plates, he had not been expecting to hear the surprised cry his brother gave, nor the sudden desperate patter of his feet as he ran into the kitchen with a gleeful look of astonishment on his face.

“Griff!” he said in a voice that was somehow something between a breathless whisper and a shout of amazement, holding the book in shaking hands, green eyes as wide as saucers.

“Yes, Ash?” he asked. Ash had been a nickname that had come into being when Aslan was learning to talk. Like all children, he had difficulty to begin with pronouncing certain letters; he referred to himself as ‘Ashran’ for several weeks before he perfected it. Griffin had shortened it to ‘Ash’ and the name had stuck as a term of endearment. Only he and Jen called him it, however.

“There’s a lion in this book that has the same name as me!” He had a massive smile on his face. His name was pretty unusual, after all, so finding out a fictional character shared it with him was a rather monumental moment for him.

“Oh really?” Griffin feigned surprise of his own. He’d read some of the Chronicles himself a few years ago, so had known all along about the Jesus allegory lion that resided in those pages. It made him smile to see his brother so happy about it though. “What’s he like?”

“I’m not that far into the book yet, so I don’t really know,” Ash admitted. “But he is the king of the land of Narnia, and he knows magic.”

“Wow, that’s pretty impressive for a lion!” Griffin said. He finished scrubbing the plates and left them to drain, pulling the plug in the sink before drying his hands off on a teacloth hanging from a cupboard handle.

“I wonder why he’s called ‘Aslan’?” Ash asked.

“Well, do you know what your name means?” Griffin said.

“Dad said it means ‘dawn’ in Hebrew,” he shrugged. “He said my mother named me that because I was born at daybreak.”

“Hmm…” Griffin wanted to disagree, but he wasn’t going to argue over little things, especially not something as poetic as that. He’d looked up Ash’s name in a baby naming book early on, curious because it was unusual, and nowhere had it mentioned the word ‘dawn’. A Jewish girl he knew from school would later confirm his suspicions, saying that the Hebrew words for dawn sounded nothing like ‘Aslan’. Jim Callenreese had likely lied just to get Ash off his case. “It’s also the Turkish word for ‘lion’.”

“My name means ‘lion’?” Ash frowned.

“Yep,” Griffin nodded.

“Woah, that’s pretty cool!” Ash grinned. “I’m a lion!”

“I’m not sure if it suits you though,” Griffin teased.

“What? Why not?” Ash pouted.

“Well, lions are pretty big, and you are very small…”

“I’ll grow! I’m a lion cub!” Ash said, defiant.

“Nah. What you are is a tiny, scrappy little wildcat!” Griffin laughed.

“I just said I’ll grow – you’re a meanie!” Ash moaned. “I’m a lion!”

“You’re too independent to be a lion,” Griffin sighed. “Lions rely too much on other lions to survive. Plus, male lions are lazy. They let the females do all the hunting. You want to be a lazy male lion, Ash?”

“Hmmm…” Ash looked unsure now.

“I’ll tell you what you’re most like,” Griffin said teasingly. “You, little baby bro of mine, are a lynx.”

“Lynx?” Ash screwed his face up at the unfamiliar word.

“Yeah, a lynx,” Griffin repeated. “That suits you perfectly.”

“What’s a lynx?” Ash asked.

“Bring me that encyclopaedia you took out of the library and I’ll show you.”

Ash vanished briefly, the sounds of him rifling around in his bedroom for the reference book audible from the kitchen. He scampered back in clasping the large hardback tightly in his chubby little hands. Ash was starting to lose his baby fat, shooting up in height and outgrowing clothes at a rapid pace of knots as he morphed into an attractive young boy, but the cute plumpness still persisted in his arms, legs, and face. He thrust the book into Griffin’s face.

“Here!”

“Thanks.” Griffin took the book from him and flicked through a few pages. He passed the birds and reptiles, photos of owls and eagles, crocodiles and snakes decorating the pages, and browsed through the mammals. The book had an entire section for cats, and he skimmed through the tigers and leopards until he found what he was looking for. “There we go. That’s a lynx.”

He showed Ash a page with three photographs. One was a common Bobcat, all lanky legs and stubby tail, slinking like an oversize, speckled housecat. Another was an insanely fluffy Canadian Lynx, with huge paws like snowshoes and furred jowls framing its face. The third was a mottled gold Eurasian Lynx, it’s tufted ears and sharp eyes angled towards the camera.

“A medium cat, _Felis Lynx_ live in high-altitude forests with dense cover of shrubs and tall grass. They eat deer, hares and wildfowl and some have been known to fish. They can climb trees, leap to impressive heights, and are good swimmers. Lynx are usually solitary, but a group of lynxes may travel or hunt together on occasion…” Ash read, interested. “The largest species is the Eurasian Lynx, latin name _Lynx Lynx_ , and the smallest is the Bobcat or _Lynx Rufus_. They are characterised by their mottled coats, neck ruffs, white-furred chests and bellies, and distinct tufted ears.”

“See, Lynx are very smart cats,” Griffin explained. “They are capable of killing prey much larger than themselves. They are also secretive – they like to keep themselves hidden and out of trouble. They share territories with bears and wolves and other animals larger than themselves, after all, so it pays to be clever.”

“Would you say a lynx is smarter than a lion?” Ash asked.

“Oh, for sure!” Griffin nodded. “Lions are brutes that rely on their strength alone, but a lynx is wily and cunning. And I personally think they look better than lions too.”

“I like their ears,” Ash said. “All pointy.”

“There is a zoo in Russia somewhere, where a common housecat befriended a captive lynx,” Griffin said. “I read about it in the paper not too long back. The stray cat got into the lynx’s cage looking for food.”

“Wouldn’t the lynx just, I dunno, eat the cat?” Ash asked. “It’s a lot bigger and stronger.”

“That’s what everyone thought would happen, but it never did. The lynx must have seen that little kitty as an equal, or else it just enjoyed the company of another creature. It would get depressed every time the keepers went in and chased the cat away, plus the cat was stubborn and kept coming back anyway, so eventually they let them stay together. They would spend a lot of time rubbing against each other and sleeping together, and they shared food and played together. Now, if that was a lion, then I don’t think that innocent little kitty would have stood a chance! But the lynx saw the worth in keeping the cat around.”

“I wonder why the cat wasn’t scared of the lynx?” Ash queried.

“Some creatures are naturally very trusting,” Griffin shrugged. “And a lynx is just a larger cat, when all said and done. It probably just saw a friend rather than a predator. Or maybe it’s just a very brave cat!”

“That’s cute,” Ash said. “I bet that lynx was really lonely before the cat came into its life.”

“Probably,” Griffin agreed. “I’d be lonely too if I had spent most of my days in captivity just for some human’s amusement.”

“Now I feel bad for the lynx…” Ash murmured. Griffin looked at the kitchen clock, the time hovering at a few minutes before 8pm.

“Jeez, is it that time already?” he exclaimed. “You need to have a bath and then get to bed!”

“Aww…”

“No complaining, you know you’re grumpy in the mornings when you don’t get enough shuteye,” Griffin said. “And we have to go to Dad and Jen’s tomorrow. I think it’s best if you get your beauty sleep.”

“How about we DON’T go to Dad’s tomorrow?” Ash suggested. “And we stay up late instead? And I read more about Aslan the lion!”

“How about no?” Griffin responded. “Now go get ready for a bath. I’ll be there in a minute, alright?”

“Dad doesn’t even like us,” Ash muttered under his breath defiantly, but he still followed Griffin’s orders, slouching out of the kitchen to the bathroom. Griffin smiled at him as he went, already showing attitude at such a young age; he was going to be a handful when he was older, that is for sure!

*

Griffin was deployed to Vietnam in the late autumn of 1972. He would write to his brother at least once a week, sending him poetry and prose of the scant few good things that happened to him in the far east. He spoke highly of his best friend, Max Glenreed, and would write funny anecdotes of things they had done together in their spare time, like the first time they had tried super spicy pho, Max turning beet red and profusely sweating while trying not to swear at the burning on his tongue that refused to stop until the laughing pho chef had brought him a glass of goat’s milk. Then there was the time the two of them had taught some local kids the rules of baseball, and they’d had a friendly game using a large tree branch as a bat and folded t-shirts as bases, with rewards of coconuts and mangosteen afterwards. His poems, unlike his letters, tended to be melancholier, describing the scenery and the people with deep empathy and regrets. Sometimes, he would write about home, and one poem in particular struck a chord with Ash.

Their conversation about lions and lynxes had been all but forgotten by Ash at this point, but the memory came flooding back when he read his brother’s latest poem. It described in artistic detail the grassy meadows and sea-salt air of their hometown, how he missed the taste of the locally caught seafood and the apple bear claws at the local bakery, how the shells down on the beach were always huge and the ocean always cold on his toes. It signed off about how he missed the people, even mentioning his gruff old man in fond terms. The final lines read _‘Mostly I miss when I awake in the morn, Seeing an Ash Lynx smiling in the breaking dawn…’_

Ash had cringed inwardly at the embarrassing words. When Griffin came home, he was first going to hit him for being embarrassing, and then hug him because he had missed him too.

It was the last poem Griff would ever send him.

*

Ash ran away shortly before his 9th birthday. Sick of the whispered rumours, he was about to be shipped off to his horrible aunt who he knew hated him anyway, so he had taken matters into his own hands. He had stuffed a couple of changes of clothes into a rucksack and walked for 5 miles before being picked up by a concerned lady, who drove him to Falmouth when he lied and told her he was older than he looked and had missed the bus home after visiting his friends. Once there, he used his scant savings raided from his piggy bank to buy a bus ticket to Boston. He had no clue where he was going to go or what he was going to do after that; all he knew was he wanted to get as far away from the Cape as he could. Maybe he could hitchhike or earn money for further travel tickets in the Beantown.

He survived on the streets of Boston for several months, scavenging food from the skips behind grocery stores where they would throw out perfectly good food on the turn, all of which was safe to eat but couldn’t be sold. He would spend all day in the free public library for heat and entertainment, chatting to the Harvard and MIT students if they were feeling talkative, sneaking into the toilets at Walmart and McDonalds to use the facilities and roughly clean himself up in the sinks. He hid at night in doorways with other drifters unless the homeless shelter had spaces and he could get a free meal and a shower. He accepted donated clothing and handouts wherever they could be found, and he learnt the hard way how to fight for his own wellbeing, the local gang kids occasionally stirring up trouble and leading to several brawls. He was shrewd and adaptable, his intelligence stretching into street-smarts. He tried to find honest work, but nobody would hire a kid, especially not a grubby-looking street urchin, although he could made a decent amount of cash begging on a good day, and good Samaritans passing by occasionally brought him a hot drink if they saw him shivering on a cold morning with his collection tin in front of him. Whenever he saw a policeman, he would run as fast as possible in the opposite direction, darting into alleyways and hiding until they were long past him. He used a pseudonym so if people were looking for an ‘Aslan Callenreese’ the name would throw them off. He was 10-years-old when a smartly-dressed overweight man in a suit had approached him with a vague job proposition…

The man said all he had to do was ‘entertain’ people, and he would get paid for it. They would provide him a place to stay and food to eat if he was a hard worker. Warning bells rang in his head, memories of Griff telling him not to follow strangers, but Griff was no longer here and he was running out of options. Ash was smart, and he had learned how to survive, but in many ways he was still naive and not very worldly. He had no idea what he was getting into when he gladly followed the man to his car, but he was desperate and hoped to finally make some money.

“What do they call you, kid?” the man had asked, with a smarmy grin like a shark.

“Ash Lynx.”

“Hah! He comes with a built-in porn-star name!” the man had chuckled to himself. “I like it, kid! I think the boss is going to love, love, LOVE you!”

It was the worst mistake of his life.

The man had cleaned him up, given him food, a haircut, and a new set of clothes. He had been friendly, joking around and playful, and had taught him how to play blackjack, lulling him into a false sense of security. The next day another suited man had picked him up and taken him to New York in a fancy car. He'd later come to know the man as Marvin Crosby. He’d barely had chance to gawp at the skyscrapers and bustling streets before he was ushered into a restaurant and taken out to one of the back rooms…

*

Seven years later, a small but brave Japanese kitten sneaked into the den of a lonely lynx and asked to hold his gun.

**Author's Note:**

> The story of the lynx and the cat is true, although I did take poetic licensing because it is a recent thing (the earliest story for it I can find is from 2014), not from the 70s. A lynx in the Leningrad zoo in St. Petersberg has befriended a little calico cat. Keepers tried to chase the cat away and separate them, but the cat kept sneaking back in. You can look it up - the photos are adorable!
> 
> Also, and this will make you sad; it is highly likely Ash was born with a drug addiction. This is why I made him a difficult baby that cried a lot. He is going through infant withdrawal.


End file.
